A Phoenix
by ThreeJane
Summary: Post Tritter Arc. AU. What if House had acually gone to jail? very dark and desolate. M for drug abuse and constant swearing. Strong H/W friendship.
1. Chapter 1

Phoenix

Phoenix

Summary: what if: what if Tritter had won and House did go to jail?

AN: For the sake of all the medical terms I'm usually writing Housefic in German. This is a translation (yeah, translating my own sh, that's how far you can get) of a fiction written for the DRHouseforum in Germany.

As translating is more of a pain than writing, I will continue this only if I do get reviews.

--hr

Las Vegas. Fastest growing city of the US. Endless masses of illegal immigrants, soldiers of fortune, criminals, fucked-up lives. City of Nightowls and cutthroats. There is always enough clientele, more than enough people in need of a doctor who would not ask too many questions, who would accept money or any other means of payment, who was cheap.

Ten pm in a hole-in-the-wall basement room only very few would call aparment: a bleeding man is laying on a dented, worn stainless-steel section-table, groaning in pain. A pair of surgical pliers disappears in a new orifice created by a bullet. It probed, searched, then opened. A latex-covered hand closed it again and pulled out with strength. Skin and flesh bulged outwards, the man on the table groaned louder. Then the bullet was out, followed by a gush of blood.

Pliers and bullet flew into the nearby sink. Trembling hands took a needle and stitched up the wound. The patient screamed, his nerves were on the brink of snapping.

„Shut up!" a gravelled voice snapped at him.

When it was done, the man who had once been a doctor gave his patients a few directions as to how to behave in the next days. It was a regular who did not need to hear the same instructions over and over. He knew what was expected as means of payment. A small bag appeared between his fingers.

Sky-blue eyes stared with unabashed greed and mistrust „Last time the shit was so cut-down, a shot of sugar might have had the same effect!"

„This is great stuff!"

„You corss me, next time I'm gonna kill you. Got it?"

„Must have been a mistake, man. Must have grabbed the wron bag, buddy."

„Another three-hundred, then."

„Are you mad?"

„Next time, you pay in advance. Now fuck off!"

Finally drugs and money changed hands.

The doctor limped to his desk where he deposited both in a metal box. Cleansing had to come first: Wiping away blood, sterilising his tools – a pity to use the alcohol on that, really! Rearraning everything in ist proper place – sometimes things here were a question of seconds. Lust like in the old times.

/old times…/ how long had it been now? Five years? Yep, two in jail and then this… It still seemed amazing that he had survived jail at all. After a broken zygomaticum and being roughed-up and raped the fourth time attacks had stopped out of the blue. Somebody had been protecting him, or so it had seemed. Somebody who'd had the right connections, who'd known the right people. Maybe the Mob's Lawyer? The guy with the brother who'd NOT had Hep E?

House had declined all visitors, had never opened any of those letters, had even turned-down the offer of parole because he would have spent that time out in the open close to all he never wanted to see any more. He did not want their pityful looks, their jugment, their disgust.

And so House had simply disappeared…


	2. Chapter 2

The knock on the door tore him out of his reminiscence

The knock on the door tore him out of his reminiscence. Some client. He never had visitors, had no friends and didn't want any. A knock on his door always meant work. He limped over and peeked through the tiny lens: nervous woman. Young. This one meant not money. House sighed and hung his head. Only when she knocked again, his body jerked and he opened the door just a crack. Stared at the kid.

„I… you're House, right?"

„What if?"

„I need an abortion. My parents are going to kill me if they find out."

The door opened, let her slip in and closed quickly behind her.

„How long?"

„What?"

Annoyed rolling of eyes. Amazing, House thought with amusement, that he could still be annoyed by all these idiots. That he was still hoping for some intelligence. „How long are you pregnant? When was your last period?" he clarified his question.

„Oh. Eight weeks ago… I believe…"

„Well, try to see it thisway: you lie, you only gonna hurt yourself."

„Eight weeks, I'm sure! Nine at best."

„Got money?" he lowered the old autopsy-table. She wasn't very tall.

„Eighty bucks."

„Put it over there." His head nodded to his desk while he washed his hands and prepared all tools needed. „Take off your pants and panty and then sit on the table." He'd rather cut bullets out of bad boys than fetuses out of women, but an unwanted child hat too bad a start. He knew what he was talking about.

House put on the gloves and wriggled his fingers like a pianist who prepared for his performance.

She looked at him with big, scared eyes „You ARE a real doctor, aren't you?"

„Define ‚real'." House mounted the sirrups – a necessary modification after he realized that abortions were a neccessity, wether he loved it or not. And the small bucks were better than nothing.

„Well, you've learned it and all. You went to med-school?" she flinched when the cold speculum was inserted – it was best for everybody when this was handled quickly and without making a fuss.

„By that definition I AM a real Doctor, yeah. Shal I put you out? That's gonna hurt." He already prepared a syringe of lidocain fort he local anesthesia and injected it into the cervix.

„No."

Of course not. She surely was afraid he'd take a quick fuck once she was out. Well, during the past years he'd seen more pussies than during the rest of his whole life. Seen, not fucked. Still, half a child… was no turn-on to him.

He owned no ultrasound and no suction- installment. Good old scapring had to suffice. She was really very brave, almost no sound came over her lips. Only when he was done did he look up at her face again „Wanna see it? It's just a bit of tissue, nothing shapely, really."

But she violently shook her head and almost jumped off the table.

„No, you don't. Lay down and give your body a moment to recover. If the bleeding stays strong after tomorrow, you come back, you hear me?" he added a few more instructions while he was already cleaning up the place.

„If you feel like getting up, you may try. Slowly." He gently poked her arm but she was not responsive. „FUCK!" she was bleeding out!

Shit! Pulse? Breath? She was tachycardic and breathing very shallowly. „Damn it!" He couldn't afford to let her go cold here! So he grabbed her with his left arm and somwhow managed to drag her out of his place and into his car.

Halfnaked as she'd been he drove her to the nearest clinic that had an ER. He caused as much confusion as he could to facilitate his escape. He had not intention of leaving his ID!

Now, that was far more action that he'd planned for. It took him half an hour to wash the blood away with enough bleach to whiten the Luxor. Her pants went into the garbage. If he hadn't deserved a shot NOW, he never would! He checked its purity – really good stuff. Dissolved it and unwrapped a new syringe. Maybe he had no license, maybe he was a junkie, but he certainly was no idiot! Limped to the sofa so he wouldn't fall had hit his head – just in case. Took off his left shoe, his sock and in went the needle into a beautifully prominent vein on the dry back of his foot.

God, that was bliss!

First the pain went away, then the flash came…

One hour later he left his place and walked over to the diner at the next intersection. Nobody took any notice of him. This was where losers lived and they were all busy with their own shit.

„Hey, Greg! You're up early." the waitress joked.

The old girl was far past the high of her times. Too shrill, too thick makeup, her tits had succumbed to gravity. /Yeah, Mr. Universe speaking here, right?/ „Bite me." he grumbled and crawled onto a greasy bar-stool

„No, thanks. I'm queasy already." His coffee arrived automatically: black with loads of sugar.

„We still have some lime-pie."

„no."

„Ah, fuck yourself." She gave up. He was high again and then he was even less of a talk than usually. When she looked over at his place next time, he was gone, a dollar besides the untouched coffee.

The child within had somehow survived it all. And it had been this hidden child that hat brought House to Vegas. All those lights – he could marvel at them without ever tyring of it. Like tonight. The Bellagio with its musical fountains had facinated him most for the wonderful elegance.


	3. Chapter 3

Las Vegas

Las Vegas. Fastest growing city of the US. Endless masses of illegal immigrants, soldiers of fortune, criminals, fucked-up lives. City of Nightowls, cutthroats and tourists looking for a quick win. Place of countless conventions.

Every third year the American Oncologists' Association was holding their most important convention and this time the place of choice hat been Las Vegas.

Wilson stood at the window of his room at the Bellagio. It offered a view of the Strip and the fountains. He had arrived one day early so he could explore this city a bit on his own. Not the least bit tired he decided to go out and mingle. Now that it was dark, the million lights made the city even more of a spectacle.

His feet had just hit the pavement when a cavalcade of low-riders passed by, proudly sporting flames and sparks, wildly bouncing as they drove. Wilson stared fascinated, craning his neck, eager not to miss a thing – and ran into another pedestrian. The other man stumbled and fell against the high wrought-iron fence shielding the water from trespassing.

„Oh, I'm sorry…" Wilson turned and froze. It was not so much his vision than his heart that recognized the figure. Shocked blue eyes turned away hastily. The man limped away with amazing speed.

„House?" Wilson called. No reaction. „HOUSE!" he followed the man through the crowd. If this was indeed House, Wilson would not let him slip away again!

Wilson had been waiting more than four hours at the gate of the jail, Steve in his cage, to pick up House. When he had walked inside Wilson had to learn that House had left in the wee hours of morning with a cab.

Wilson had never understood – all his letters had been returned unopened, all his attempts to visit House had failed.

Wilson had spent thousands of dollars in Pis but they all came only to one conclusion: House had emptied his account with Chase Manhattan and had vanished completely. Without a trace.

The oncologist had even bribed someone in jail to get a hold of all files they had on House. He had known that his friend – and he still considered House being that – would never accept such a violation of his private affairs but Wilson couldn't have cared less!

The first four months House had spent mostly in the sick bay – as a patient. Wilson had had tears in his eyes when he read the reports. Ten times had House been severely beaten up. They had broken his malar bone and the rectal injuries spoke of much worse things. Houses big mouth had certainly gotten him into a lot of trouble. After that the file was empty.

Wilson had figured it out after quite a while that somebody – whoever it had been – had been protecting House. Had he sold himself fort he sake of survival? Impossible! House was too proud, his pride sometimes bordering on stubbornness. He would not have bent his back for anybody, Wilson was sure.

After his years of fruitless search, Wilson would not allow House to escape!


	4. Chapter 4

House could still be amazingly fast if he really wanted to, but the dense crowd hindered his advance and nobody with a bum leg would escape a Jamew Wilson who was running on a regular basis

House could still be amazingly fast if he really wanted to, but the dense crowd hindered his advance and nobody with a bum leg would escape a Jamew Wilson who was running on a regular basis. After only two hundred yards, Wilson had caught up.

„House, don't you recognize me?"

„You mistake me for someone else." Mumbled the invalid without slowing down his laboured gait.

„Oh, no! It IS you, House." Wilson reached fort he other man's sleeve.

„Fuck off!" hissed House viciously.

„Is that all?" asked Wilson between anger and disappointment, "fuck off? After all these years that's all that's left of our friendship? I've been looking for you, House! I've been looking everywhere!"

House had stopped. He jerked his arm off Wilsons grip and stared at him with sheer hostility "You're pathetic. You've always been. And now fuck off." They had reached the Neon and House entered, revved up the engine and filed into the traffic.

Wilson got almost run over when he stopped a cab, ordering the driver to follow the other man's car. The driver refused to let Wilson get off in that area and so Wilson noted the address and returned to the Hotel.

House locked-up the door and flung himself onto the bed. How the hell had Wilson found him? Coincidence. It had to be coincidence. House owned no credit-cards, no banking account, nothing that would have created any traces. House had believed that Wilson had written him off a long time ago. Having been a seasoned internet-user House had known enough about electronic footprints. He had gone out of his way to avoid being detectable.

The shock of so unexpectedly being confronted with Wilson of all people had been sobering.

He wouldn't be able to suffer being visited HERE by Wilson. That would be far too humiliating! For the first time in months did House look around and noted the absolute desolate note of this hole, the dirt, realized how neglected he himself was. This could not be called living – this was mere vegetating! Operating criminals because he needed the money for the next shot. Because he was too much of a coward to put an end to this pathetic existence.

Because the child within was still hoping for an end to this nightmare.

A glance at his watch told him it was still too early for another shot. Yes, he was an addict. No, he was not totally insane. He had no intention of ODing. There were better ways, more certain ways to finish oneself off.

So he limped to the kitchen-counter that served mainly his medical activities. There stood half a gallon of alcohol. Expensive, undenaturated alcohol. With trembling fingers House poured himself some into a greasy glass and downed it in one gulp. Drank until he threw up and blacked out.


	5. Chapter 5

Early evening next day House was roughly kicked back into reality: somebody was close to smashing his door to pieces or so it sounded

Early evening next day House was roughly kicked back into reality: somebody was close to smashing his door to pieces or so it sounded. He glimpsed through the peephole – Ray Lowe, one of the local Mobsters.

House opened the door. Ray was not alone – he dragged his half-unconscious brother along.

"Shit, House, they shot him! You gotta help 'im!"

House blinked "Fuck, Ray, he's bleeding all over the street!"

"DO something!" Ray hoisted his brother onto the well-known steel table.

House made his way over to where Marlowe laid prone on the autopsy-table. He tore the shirt apart and saw dark blood coming from a shot-wound. This was bad. "Damn it, why'd you bring him here? He needs an ICU, you idiot!"

"No! He'll go back to jain. I promised him he'd never have to go there again."

"Well, you're just about to keep that one. He's dying. Go! Take him wherever you want before he's dead. Can't use a DB here." Houses finger pointed to the door.

"You gotta help him, damn it…"

"I CAN'T! His liver's exploded, you fucking moron. NOBODY CAN FIX THIS!"

Ray pressed his gun against Houses temple "You gonna help him. Now." Ray growled and cocked the gun. The effect of that sound was usually extremely intimidating. "or I'll finish you off."

House thought this was hilarious and he laughed out loud when there was another pretty determined knock on his door.

"Who's that?" Ray asked nervously.

"How the hell should I know?" was he sporting a radar or what?

"House! Open the door! I'm not going away."

"Who's that?" Ray asked again.

"Obviously some goddamn asshole, how should I know?" //oh, Wilson, your timing couldn't have been worse!// House thought.

"That's not how to treat a friend, House!" Wilson would not leave, that much was clear – House himself had trained Wilson for years to be insistent to get any reaction out of House.

"Don't know what you want. Fuck off!" yelled House, only to add a whimper due to his really bad hangover. His head was killing him.

But Ray had an idea. The gun disappeared from Houses temple and the Mobster opened the door, grabbed a totally confused Wilson inside and shoved him to the ground, pointing the gun at this stranger. "Help him or I'll shot this one!"

House rolled his eyes. The world was crowded with idiots, really! "Ray, your brother has a torn liver. Without a live he can't live, hence the name. I cannot DO ANYTHING FOR HIM, YOU ASSHOLE!"

The shot was deafening. Their ears were ringing in the aftershock and House almost wet himself. Much worse was Wilson's cry of pain! Ray had shot his foot. House stared at Wilson's shoe – now with additional hole – and the blood. Wilson's blood. Wilson this fool! Ray the fucking asshole! And he himself in the midst of it all.


	6. Chapter 6

Ray was not kidding, that much was established. House wouldn't try and see where the next shot would be heading to. "OK, I'll try." He cut off the clothes to demonstrate his willingness to help. He then fetched gauze and disinfectant, handing it to Wilson. Wilson was pale and stunned, showing signs of a mild shock. House hoped Wilson could take care of himself. But then, a shot in the foot was nowhere near life-threatening, he could look after that later-on.

Wilson sat on the ground, his heart pounding in his chest, his foot screaming with pain. Until now he had not found a second for thought, but now he started to worry. Slowly and almost imperceptibly he moved his hand to his pocket, dialed 911 and shifted his mobile behind his back where it would be hidden, but able to transmit the situation.

Wilson bandaged his foot as good as was possible with almost nothing at hand. Where, the heck had he ended up? This place was disgustingly dirty, the floor he sat upon made him want to puke. This was obviously an illegal practice. Dear God, what had happened to House in these past three years? In the hindmost corner Wilson could spot a bed – seemed House indeed lived in this hole!

And now he, Wilson, was in the hand of a obviously stressed-out gangster who was using him to force House into helping a dying man. Wilson had never before in all his life looked into the barrel of a gun and now he found himself being SHOT! At least that seemed to make an impression on House who had so much pretended not to care before. All this could have been avoided, had House not been so stupidly proud and stubborn!

Marlowe's flank on the other hand showed already discoloring due to severe internal bleedings. "Ray if anything is going to help him, that would be a hospital. He's lost a lot of blood already. Bit more and he goes into shock." Still, he made a feeble attempt do stop the bleeding to keep Ray's mood up. This was a waste of time and material.

The sound of a siren and screeching tires outside shocked all of them.

"You harebrained fucker lured the cops to my place!" House hissed with venom. He tried to limp over to the greasy window that overlooked the street, but Ray immediately pointed his gun at Wilson "Stay where you are!"

A knock on the door. A voice, loud and confident "Police! Open the door!"

"I'm holding two people hostage!" yelled Ray through the closed door "and I'm armed!" to proof that, Ray shot into the ceiling.

House stood beside the table. He figured this would be a really bad moment to tell Ray his brother had just died and so he kept his mouth shut.

"Over there! Both of you." Ray made House and Wilson move into the darker corner where the bed was. The sour smell of long-used sheets was less than inviting to Wilson but he had no choice. House heavily flopped down on it and sat, blank eyes staring dully at the floor – old habits died hard, indeed. Wilson watched him from the corner of his eye: House looked unkempt, neglected even and gaunt.

Then came the slight tremors and soon House couldn't hide it any more. Wilson asked himself if the man was actually scared – back in Princeton House had not been scared of anything! But then Wilson noticed the sweat and he realized House was on turkey. Simple as that.

Since House had no phone, the cops had to use a megaphone as means of communication. The mobster yelling his answers back through the closed door. The noise added up to Houses frayed nerves, making it only harder to suffer the withdrawal. Finally House stood.

"Sit DOWN!" immediately the gun was back, pointing at Wilson.

"I need a shot."

"Couldn't care less. Down!" snapped Ray who was stressed himself to the brink of snapping.

"Believe me you don't want a guy on turkey in here. C'mon, Ray, just a shot." House was between begging and cynicism.

"Yeah, OK."

He limped to his desk and suddenly felt a deep regret for not owning a gun! Ray had to be really stressed if he made such a mistake! House opened the drawer that held his stash, took out a sealed syringe and a small vial. Back on the bed, he filled a dose of Hydrocodone into the syringe. He wasn't in the mood of preparing heroin! Likely they wouldn't survive this anyway. Well, then that's it, right? Only regret he felt was for Wilson. The fool had blindly stumbled into this just because he had wanted to help. That WAS Wilson's curse!

"Fucking sonofabitch." Muttered House. He was trembling so badly there was no way he would hit the vain on the back of his hand.

"Let me." Wilson reached for the syringe.

After all that had happened the ex-Diagnostician still had so much inherent trust in his ex-friend that he willingly gave up the small tool.

"Dosage OK?" asked Wilson which only earned him a roll of eyes, saying clearly 'am not an idiot!'. Wilson injected the drug despite his misgivings. House sighed gratefully. As soon as he was calm again, he reached for the syringe again and filled it. To the brim. Wilson stared at him.

That moment, Ray emphasized whatever he'd said once again with a shof.

"Threeee."

"What?"

"That was the third shot. Got a Beretta, so ten rounds left, tops. Was in a shooting, certainly fired some. More'n five are not left, I bet."

"Are you out of your mind?" whispered Wilson hastily "Wat are you up to?"

"Nuthin'" was the stubborn answer.

Wilson desperately tried to get his mind off the currently hopeless situation "hat are you doing here, House?"

"What's it look like? Earning money with the one thing I know rather well."

"You're on drugs – totally wasted. God, look at yourself!" Wilson could hardly bite back the tears "You're half-starved, holing up in a… a hole!"

"Shut the fuck up." snarled House

"Why do you do this to you? You know you have friends!"

"Jeeze, you're pathetic, Wilson. Absolutely pathetic. And now shut the fuck up!" House tried to concentrate on Ray and his loud voice negotiating their terms of death with the cops outside.

Wilson fell silent with a hurtful look on his face. After another while, the dugs had returned House into a state of normal operation, House stood.

Neither had an idea of how much time had passed. By the progress of withdrawal and drug-effect, House guessed it was one hour. He made quite a fuss standing up, because he WANTED to be noticed. His plan was all laid out. With a bit of luck he might get Wilson out of this mess.

"SIT!"

"Gotta pee." House explained impatiently and limped towards the bathroom.

"You stay put!"

"Hey, I gotta take a piss. You want me to pee into the sink or what?"

"What do I care?" Ray turned back to the window and yelled "One step closer and I'm gonna shoot the hostage!"

House was cursing under his breath but changed direction and made it to the sink where he – to Wilsons utter disgust – did piss into the sink!.Flushed. did not care to wash his hands. Instead House lunged with all the courage he could muster towards Ray and rammed the syringe into the man's jugular artery. His thumb pressed down the plunger. This would knock out an elephant!

Almost at the same time a brutal jerk slammed him backwards. House staggered and fell onto his back. With utter amazement did he gaze down his front to see a rapidly spreading blood-stain appear on his shirt-front. It was hard to breathe.

Not far a way, Ray sank to the ground. Wilson approached him in funny, slo-mo jumps.

"God, House!" Wilson checked the wound and tried to stop the bleeding with the limited resources at hand. He yelled for help, for an ambulance.

"Doesn't…. even hurt, Jimmy." Houses voice gurgled with the blood that was rapidly filling his lungs, on his face was still this amazed look. Then House happily embraced the darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

While waiting for the ambulance Wilson kept House in a half-sitting position to facilitate what breathing abilities the bleeding man had left. He felt House's hot blood soak his shirt and it chilled Wilson to the core. "Hang on, House! Help is on the way." He kept whispering it like a mantra. He hardly noticed the cops around, hardly noticed any commotion aside from the weakening pulse, the shallow, gurgling breathing of the thin man in his arms.

House was dying! Wilson had finally found him only to watch him bleed to death in his arms… worst of all was that he was totally helpless.

The paramedics had to gently pry House from Wilson's arms "Sir, we're taking over from here. We'll take you to a hospital. Sir?" they softly shook Wilson to see if he registered them at all, "Sir? Do you hear me?"

"What?" his eyes were glued on House.

"We'll be taking you to a hospital right now." the paramedic tried to make Wilson move but he stood and stared at the seemingly chaotic activities around House. A mobile defibrillator came to life, beeping as they began to shock House's body.

Nothing.

Again. Still nothing.

"C'mon Greg, you can do this!" Wilson whispered. One more try, then they would give up. House had one more chance, and only one. "DON'T YOU DIE, HOUSE!" Wilson yelled at the top of his lungs. The bleeding body flinched and somebody announced a pulse! Wilson fought for composure while he watched House being carried away, strapped to a stretcher.

"Take me to the same place!" Wilson demanded with sudden fierceness and moved on his own to the waiting ambulance.

His foot was rather quickly being restored. Suregery took less than an hour, then Wilson was allowed to hobble off on two crutches. The third metatarsal had to be supported by a titanium splint where the bullet had torn through his foot but the prognosis was very well: he would heal and aside from a bit of metal in his body nothing would remind him of the incident. Physically, that is.

At the moment, Wilson count's have cared less. All he wanted was to see House, but already the police-agents were there to ask him a shipload of questions. Wilson's faith in the authorities had never faltered, not even after Tritter's obsessive crusade. House had screwed up back then.

"So he'd been a doctor, you say?" the ruffled cop was jotting down notes in a small book. At least they now had an idea of who the guy in surgery was!

Wilson nodded "They… withdrew his license. He was having problems with his medication."

"Oh, he'd been a junkie already back then?"

"He was NO JUNKIE!" Wilson snapped angrily "He's in severe chronic pain. And it is perfectly normal to develop opiate-tolerance when taking such meds over a long period of time! He needed more than I could prescribe with good conscience."

"What a surprise, you've been his prescribing doctor?" the cop said that as if he's just discovered the dealer himself.

"Hey, what is this?" Wilson felt tired and rubbed his temples "You want to know the story, go and read the file. I can't fill you in about the present – I just met him an hour ago after YEARS." He was fed up with the cop's acid remarks. But this one here would not take orders from a civilian.

"Our guys found piles of medical instruments in that place. Seems your friend wasn't overly concerned about not having a license."

Wilson was hesitant. He did not like lying! But he also felt this silly loyalty to House and couldn't make himself harm House any more. "I don't know where you're taking this…" he finally said with great reluctance.

"Let's see… there's a doctor without a license, a dead body on a section-table, medical tools all over the place, scalpels, needles, transfusions, illegal narcotics, tons of bloodied clothes in the garbage outside. I'd say we're talking an illegal practice here. Not to mention the loads of drugs we've found."

"House had been an excellent doctor." Wilson insisted. "And you'll have to ask him yourself about what had happened, 'cause I sure have no clue, _Sir_."

"Just – what exactly were you doing there? Fill another prescription?"

Wilson balled his hand into a fist. "After Dr. House -"

"Mr. House." the cop corrected.

"Oh, no! He may not have a license at this moment, but he does have a medical degree and that cannot be taken from him!" Wilson would not allow further humiliation to be brought over House! He continued, "After DOCTOR House had been released from jail, he vanished. I've been looking for him ever since and now I literally stumbled across him. I… I couldn't let him disappear again."

"You will have to show up at the precinct to sign your testimonial, Dr. Wilson. And stay around, OK?" the cop handed Wilson his card and left.

"Not moving an inch, you bet." Muttered Wilson. He wouldn't leave town without House!


	8. Chapter 8

Dull sounds.

Unidentifiable.

Tired…

Blackness.

Nothingness.

…

Sound.

Oh, damn, afterlife DID exsist after all! If only he had been a better boy – for sure he was now roasting in hell; just like his old man, the asshole.

Pain!

Perfect. Sure, you had to suffer in hell. Made sense. Too bad.

Light – far too glaringly bright – tortured his eyes, his head.

He wanted to moan but couldn't

Instead he choked terribly, his throat convulsed around some obstacle that forced its own rhythm upon him. A rhythm that was not his.

He hated being forced!

Then a moment of clarity struck.

Shit.

He was not dead.

Goddamn fucking crappy shit!

Wilson…

They had rescued him.

Ray had not aimed too well!

"Are you awake?" a voice nearby asked him. The object of his anger and frustration was here! House turned his head to where the voice came from and only then opened his eyes again. He tried to hit him, but he was weak as a baby and could hardly control his body. All he managed was to give Wilson the finger.

"the shot went through your lung. You were in surgery for over four hours. You'll live." Wilson gently brushed a greasy lock from House's forehead.

Weakly House balled his hands into fists. He would have just gone cold without much pain – drained like a tub with the plug pulled. But Wilson Wonder Boy had to come and rescue him. Unable to speak House stared at Wilson, all his bitter anger pouring from his eyes.

Again he tried to hit Wilson. A metallic rattle hit his ears and his hand was held back. House stared to his hand: he was restrained with handcuffs! He pressed a grunt past the tube and started to cough violently. It hurt like hell!

"Stop it! You're just out of surgery. You're going to rip all seams." Wilson called for a nurse. She unlocked the dosage-unit, pressed a button and soon House slipped back into a dull, warm doze.

Next time he woke, he was breathing freely on his own. Swallowing still hurt a lot. Slowly and carefully House ran a basic self-test, checked his mobility and learned that he was still chained to the bed. As if he might outrun anybody!

Unfortunately the nurses soon realized he was awake and – as treaded, but expected – a cop appeared in his field of vision. House did not need a badge or a uniform; he could smell cops a hundred yards against the breeze. All he could do was to ignore the guy.

"Nice of you to finally wake up."

//asshole// thought House.

"You saved us quite a bit of trouble. But now he's dead. Not so good for you."

//fuck you.//

"All the drugs we've found – boy, you're well stashed! That's going to be some years by itself… not to mention the not quite legally run practice." The cop sipped his coffe and House's mouth watered at the sight. "You'll be on your knees for the next ten years, I'd say. 'm sure you already know that, don'cha?"

So they knew who he was. And they had accessed files they were not entitled to, but then – he was an ex-con. //not again…//

"You know the kid?" cop showed him a photo, obviously a post-mortem shot. House recognized the face of the last abortion he'd done. //shit// this was not his best week, House mused.

"Hospital staff ID'ed you. Hmmm let's see… might qualify as murder. Oh man, you'll never see the sun ever again!"

They couldn't hold the girl against him! He had taken her to a hospital, true. But that wasn't a crime. Ray – well, Ray was another issue completely. Wilson sucked at lying and very likely had no intention whatsoever to lie for him anyway! House took a deep breath – oh that still hurt.

"You want to say something?"

House closed his eyes, being tired of this. They just wanted to scare him into admitting something, was all.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry for the delay, folks, life is rather demanding at the moment. Or has been until recently. Which is why *now* I can get back to writing again. Hee hee.

######

"What are you doing here?" Wilson Wonder-Boy-Oncologist came to the rescue

"Oh, just seeing how your junkie doctor-friend is doing."

"You're not even *allowed* to be here! He isn't fit for interrogation and I can't see a lawyer being present." Wilson sounded truly angry. It was obvious that he had read some regulations about proceedual law.

House held up his middle-finger and gloated because the cop saw it and was pissed.

"You just can't help it, can you?" Wilson was shaking his head. "It's not exactly a good idea to bring up the cops against you."

House rolled his eyes. Wilson could impossibly be *that* naïve! „They are already … against me." he whispered hoarsely.

"First they must proof you're guilty!"

"You… idiot! That doesn't apply… for ex-cons."

"Oh, did they change the constitution?"

House breathed in deeply and immediately his face contorted with pain.

"Are you in pain?" Wilson was instantly back in full-care-mode.

"You sonofabitch!" snapped House "Only because of you!"

"What?" Wilson didn't understand.

"Could be just peacefully dead by now. But you, you pathetic wanker, had to play hero."

"Peacefully dead?!?!?! Have you lost your mind?" sure, Wilson had not expected a thank-you speech, but that House was angry *because* he was still alive – now, that was far away from what he'd expected!

"You can talk!" House got upset again and the pain in his chest peaked. "Look at me! A cripple, junkie, ex-con, physician without a license who's doing illegal abortions galore. I'm not the man I used to be, Wilson. You're hunting a phantom. Go back home into your nice world. Mine is not made for you any more."

„I'm not leaving without you." Wilson replied calm and firmly.

"Blah, blah, blah."

"I've never stopped being your friend."

"Oh please, do you even listen to yourself? Come-on and cry, that's what you're so good at."

"Bastard!" Wilson stormed out of the patient-room – determined not to show House the tears that those words had provoked. Maybe he *should* give up? The man in the room was no longer the friend of old.

Wilson hired a criminal defense lawyer. After ten minutes he was fed up with the stoically silent man and walked out. The second House insulted unitl he too gave up. When Wilson was at the end of his wits, he called Stacy, asking her for a name.

Three hours later Wilson had hired another one. The guy looked more like an ex-con than anything else, but Wilson couldn't afford to be picky.

Lawyer Myers, warned by Wilson in advace, settled onto the visitor's chair and, after it seemed established that House wouldn't say anything, he went through the file and started to dictate a letter into is voice-recorder.

"… the behalf of running an illegal practice, we plead with ignorance. The defendant has…"

House was listening. What else should he do, tied to IV-lines and monitors – and handcuffs? He had to admit that the guy was good in what he was doing. If he managed to pull that off, they could – worst case – accuse House of having killed a mobster with a lethal dose of his illegally owned stash of drugs. Oh, and, yes, the possession of said drug. That *was* a bit inconvenient…

When Myers left after almost two hours he said laconically "I guess you'll be out in two."

//two more years!// "Wait!" House rattled with the fucking handcuff "If I plead guilty in all points – you think I'll get the chair?"

"Beg your pardon?" Myerst stared at House as if he'd just sprouted another head.

"Is there a chance for death-penalty yes or no?"

"What you did was nowhere near murder! No!"

Goddamn fucking shil.

To Wilson Myers said "That guy doesn't need a lawyer, he needs a shrink!"

Pretrial conference accused House of manslaughter in a lesser case, illegal possession of drugs, viloation of abortion-regulation and practicing without a license.

Ever since he'd been transferred to remand, House had fought off all attempts by Wilson to see him. He had refused the clothes Wilson had bought him. And so it was only at the pretrial that Wilson saw House again and was utterly shocked: the prison-garb House wore flopped loosely around his emaciated limbs as he limped – heavily leaning on the apparitor since he was not allowed to use a cane.

It went quickly – House kept his mouth tightly shut, staring holes into the desk while his lawyer debated the charges with the district-attorney, claimed procedural errors and did all the things one would expect from a good lawyer.

The trial was to begin two weeks later

They had rehearsed his testimony again and again, but Wilson was still terribly nervous. When he was called inside and sworn in he could feel House's gaze on him, could feel how the blue eyes burnt holes into him. Holes of anger and hate.

Because Wilson was here to beg for pity. Wilson was testifying so that each and everybody would know the few things he knew of House's miserable childhood. To point out in XXL letters, what a pitiful cripple House was. To finally and totally humiliate House and bare him, his flaws and shortcomings to the world. At least that was how House saw it.

It was true, in parts. Wilson *was* there to soften the jury. But he was also there to make them see that House – with all his flaws – was a brilliant doctor who would always do all that he could to save a patient.

But the angry silence in the dock pushed him off-kilter and Wilson was not sure if he had not completely fucked-up the cross-examination.

The real mean thing was that Wilson had slipped-in a psychiatrist. One of the orderlies had been a bit more. They had betrayed him and only now did House understand what game they played.

He would be locked away in an asylumn. Put a sign on him, saying 'lunatic' and lock him up for good.

And so it happened.

Directly after the trial ended he was being brought to a high-security facility, into the 'mostly harmless' wing where he could still make his inmates cry with his scathing comments. Wilson had pulled all cords to get this done. He had been sure that House, in his physical state, would not survive another term inside a regular prison. The looney-bin had been the only option that would grant Wilson enough time to come up with something better.


	10. Chapter 10

AN: and again, sorry for the delay. Too much work at the office and translating an existing piece is not quite so thrilling…

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It was the fourth week that House spent in the locked ward. Just like every day before he refused any form of cooperation. Es was just sitting there, staring holes into the floor or plucked away at his clothes.

Great wardrobe! Since he'd been assessed as being suicidal he was being housed in a ward that offered almost nothing to keep his mind occupied. No shoes that deserved that name, instead some flimsy slippers. So he ambled around on bare feet. That was small battlefield. Orderlies put the slippers back onto his feet at least ten times a day and House toed them off almost immediately. No belt, instead an elastic band in his pants. No glass mirror in the bathrooms, only a polished, shiny plate of stainless steel, meticulously set into the tiles of the wall. All windows enforced with wire-mesh. It was a prison, only the name was different! No power-cords anywhere, not even sockets. Full video-surveillance, no privacy whatsoever, he couldn't even jerk off at night without the possibility of being watched!

No music. Well, there were loudspeakers that were blabbing all day long, but there were no instruments. All good instruments were considered too dangerous: Piano, guitar, keyboards. All available literature was crap and all offered activities simply an impertinence. So he just sat there for hours, making music in his mind.

The only reason he got up in the morning was because the orderlies dragged him out and put away the mattress for the day as a reaction to his refusal to get up on his own. House had decided to bet on total passive resistance because being here did not sit well with him. In fact, it was completely unacceptable!

Patiently House waited for his chance. It would come, it was only a matter of time.

After three months in this hell of isolation he was being transferred. Without announcement he was being brought to an US Marshal Service airplane where they chained him to a seat side by side with *real* criminals. Damn it, had they now decided to put him back into an ordinary jail? House prayed for a plane-crash, an abduction, anything that would get in the way of a planned landing.

Unfortunately air travel is one of the safest means of transportation and so House saw three stop-overs during which prisoners left and others were brought in. Only House himself and two really heavy guys remained seated all the time. Where the hell were they heading? East, that much was obvious, but where to exactly? In any case he should sign his will if he were to go into the same jail as those two hardcore-badass bastards. If those were exemplatory for the occupants of his destination he'd never get up from kneeling ever again. House guessed it wouldn't take more than a week. Ah, well, a week could be damn long, but it was a defined span and the end was within sight. Maybe he could even speed the process up a bit? You only had to kick the right guy's balls, then you were toast, sure as hell.

It was dark when he was finally freed from the chains. He was led to a separate car. At least that meant he would NOT be put into the same place as the two bad-os. The two-hour drive was spent in silence, House staring out of the window from the backseat, trying to discern his surroundings and get a clue regarding his destination, but in the dark, all places seemed to look alike.

When they stopped and he realized WHERE exactly he'd been brought to, House refused to get out of the car. This time he did not stop at passive restistance, he was fighting with teeth and claws. He would NOT get out of the car here, no fucking way! But they were three and not cuffed and a lot stronger. Eventually he stood at the gates of the psychiatric hospital of Trenton – just a stone's throw away from Princeton.

House knew full well, whom to thank for this: Wilson. This pathetic wanker was not to be deterred.

House wished he were dead.

House just continued with his complete passive refusal of cooperation. The joint was so alike to the one in Vegas, had House not experienced the travel, one could have told him he'd never been gone away at all. Just the staff's lilt was a bit more familiar – and he had his own small room.

As if all that were not enough, here he had to participate in therapy. Every fucking day for thirty minutes he sat in Dr. Stern's office. Every day half an hour of dedicated non-listening to the other doctor's blabbing, non-reacting to whatever was happening: at times it was exhausting.

House tried to hoard NSAIDs. After the hospital they had put him on non-addictive pain-meds. Since one could off oneself with virtually anything, if only the dosage was high enough, it was just a matter of time to gather enough stuff. Unfortunately, everything was strictly rationed and saving some increased his pains.

Eventually they found his secret stash and took it all away. From then on, they controlled his oral orifice after every medication to make sure he had indeed swallowed everything. His room was being subjected to regular searches. It was hopeless. With good care he might well turn seventy in this hellhole!

On the table of Dr. Stern laid a copy of 'Medicine Monthly' and House tried to decipher at least the upside-down headlines without being caught. His mind was starving for stimulation, for some contact to the outside-world. Maybe a psychiatric ward was not as bad as a jail when it came to House's personal suffering of physical pain and fear. But it was completely undignified and the most cruel form of a coma or so House thought.

"Does that interest you?" Stern pointed at the periodical

//fuck, he noticed.//

"Do you want to have it?"

//yes, you son-of-a bitch! Do I have to bend over or sing a song?// given his current location, the latter was more likely.

"See, I want something from you and now you want something from me. That's a good start, I'd say." Stern had of course noticed the change in posture and body-language. He was pretty sure that right now House was mentally present for the very first time. Even if he did not answer any of Stern's questions, the psychiatrist was absolutely certain that House was listening attentively. Stern could see House's eyes flicker under lowered lids. There was always something to get people hooked!

//that's blackmail, you jerk!//

"You're causing my staff a lot of trouble, Dr. House. They are not responsible for what happened to you."

Already, House's attention began to drift again. So he wouldn't get the magazine. Stern realized he was overdoing it. "Why don't you leave your shoes on? If you do, I'll give you this." Stern pointed at the paper, "And if you agree to henceforth keep them on, you may have it as long as you'd like to."

House immediately left the room, returned moments later, grabbed the journal and left. One hour later, Stern could see House in a corner, immersed in the new acquisition.


	11. Chapter 11

Stern shook his head. Yes, House was a convict, but he was not mentally impaired and highly intelligent. To lock him up in this low-key stimulus place was certainly not going to do any good and qualified hardly as reintegration. Any person could be broken only Stern did not believe that was part of his job-description.

The rest of his day House spent reading. Finally something interesting! Something from the outside world. He devoured every single article, surprised how much of medical development he had missed during those past years. His brain was getting back on track already.

When House was brought to Stern next day – unwillingly as always – he wore socks and slippers. Staff had already confirmed that House had not been walking barefoot since the past session.

"Hello Dr. House. How are you today?"

Again, there was no reaction. And TODAY House had something that distracted him wonderfully from Stern's obnoxious babbling: in his mind he recalled one of the articles he'd read and put together a list of mistakes and false assumptions the author had made. During the first half hour he did not hear a single word of what Stern was hurtling at him – if that was what Stern was doing.

Then somewhere something heavy fell to the ground and House started. Immediately Stern attacked: "I saw you play the piano."

//ha. Ha.//

"In the other ward there is one. Maybe you would like to be there for a while?"

//you goddamn son of a bitch. What's the price for that?// House shrugged indifferently – a mistake he realized almost immediately! His yearning had made him let his guard down.

A few nights later House had a terrible nightmare. For no apparent reason he suffered an anaphylactic shock. His throat constricted, swelling shut and the doctors around him were watching him impassively – he had betrayed their codex and now was not worth the effort to save him.

House woke, mouth agape – and couldn't breathe! Opening his eyes he saw a fellow patient bent over him, choking the dear life out of House. Black spots were already dancing in his visual field and only with the very last strength did he manage to ram his knee into the attacker's groin. The madman groaned and rolled on the ground, writhing in agony.

House sat up and gulped down air like a fish on dry land. His throat hurt like hell. Staggering and stumbling he fled the room and headed for the nurses' station. That was not how he wanted to die! At least he would set the rules for that.

For his own safety the put him onto a locked single-cell.

The only comfort of that situation was that he and he alone now was in control of the TV-program.

"Hey, Doc!" Gabe, one of the orderlies, stood in the door to his room. A giant with an angel's face and matching patience. "The boss wants to see you."

House shuffled in lee of Gabe down the hall. He slept a lot since he'd been singled out: boredom was a slow but merciless killer for his mind.

"Dr. House, you have a visitor." Stern greeted him.

When had been the last time he'd had a visitor? He couldn't tell. True, the TV was blaring all day long, but he wasn't really listening any more – House had lost all sense of time because each day blended into the next without any difference, an endless monotony of sleeping, walking, eating. 'Having a visitor' wouldn't have been the proper description anyway. 'refused a visitor' would be much more fitting a description. He had gotten used to them being completely in control, dictating his daily rhythm, everything. So this time he didn't even think of refusing when they led him to the visitor's room.

Wilson.

Well, who else? House was being sat at a table, across from Wilson. Gabe settled into a corner on another chair.

Wilson was shocked. It had been a year since he'd last seen House and what he saw now was… horrific! Facing him was an empty shell. "House. How are you?"

//are you blind, you little idiot?//

"I.. brought you something." countless times Wilson had carried his gift along, but he had wanted to hand it over to House personally. So he had to take it back home just as often because House had always refused to see him. Finally Wilson could hand over the box – faded at the edges from all those journeys: a small keyboard with batteries.

House was staring at the box that Wilson was now pushing across the tabletop. The oncologist watched as the long, slender fingers slid across the colourful cardboard. How he craved to know what went on in the other's mind right now. Was House delighted at this small gift?

"Pease say something." eventually Wilson could not hold on any longer

//blah blah blah//

"House, you're not doing yourself any favour with this."

//Thanks, Wilson! The only reason for me to be here is YOU.// he glared at the younger doctor. Oh Lordy, Wilson had grown old! There were wrinkles around his eyes that had not been there a few years ago, deep lines around his thinning lips and gray hair even! To House, Wilson had always been the epitome of the eternal youth. When did this happen to Wilson?

"They will put you under tutelage if you continue like this."

"I AM de facto under tutelage already!" House croaked

Both Gabe and Wilson stared with shock at House. Wilson because of the obviously untrained voice and Gabe because it was the very first time he'd heard House say anything.


	12. Chapter 12

Day after day passed. Identical days blending into each other, the lines between yesterday and today are blurring. House found himself incapable of keeping track. How many days had he already served? But then: it was not of any import to him: there was nothing waiting for him outside and he did not expect anything from the world any more. Here he had a place to crash, food and clean clothes – and now even the small Wilson-keyboard.

He could have tried to count the number of showers he'd taken, but is was really not worth the effort. The success Stern had had with the magazine he could not repeat. Either House was fine with this one issue or the man was unwilling to make any more concessions.

Unbeknownst to House, Wilson, House's lawyer – whom he had never met – and Stern had been working on Houses release. Stern had supported all their activities and so they had succeeded after House's second sentence.

It was Wilson who'd come to pick him up. This time there was no way to refuse because one of the conditions for his parole was that he'd live with Wilson to be slowly reintroduced into the world and a new life. He would never get rid of Wilson ever again, House thought. With the duffel-bag holding his few belongings and the keyboard House exited the clinic and limped to the waiting car. Wilson wanted to greet him somehow but it was obvious that House did not want that – besides it would have been awkward with House holding all his stuff.

So Wilson resorted to "Hi. Good to see you." He took care of House's luggage while House folded himself into the passenger's seat.

After a few futile attempts at some small-talk Wilson gave up and the rest of the drive passed in awkward silence. The closer they got to their destination, the more excited became House. Most of the area had not changed too much and he knew all the streets. When the car finally stopped at the curbside, House stared at Wilson. This had to be a joke, right?

"Ah, well", Wilson said with an embarrassed face, "it seemed the most sensible solution. I… you should have a home when you would be released. I couldn't guess that you'd prefer to slink away in the dark."

House was stunned. They were indeed parking in front of his old aparment! Wilson had held the fort here all those years? Why? Really so that 'he'd have a home when he would be released'? What would it look like inside? Ties all over the place? House had to bit back a grin.

It seemed House had entered a time-machine… inside, few had changed. Tidier, yes. A few new photographs on the walls, some new books in the shelves. Wilson had left traces of his life, of course but nothing that had alienated the place. The baby-grand stood at its place, polished spotless. House almost felt dizzy. All those years and in here time, it seemed, had stood still. He could almost imagine just coming home after a long day's work at PPTH.

"Uh, well, I… I ordered a fold-out couch but it hasn't arrived yet…" Wilson pointed at the bedroom, "There's fresh linen on the bed and I cleared out half the closet for your stuff." House looked at the duffel-bag: he wouldn't need half a closet! He limped into the bedroom and managed just in time to lock the door and sit on the bed, shaking like a leaf.

By the time House trusted himself to be thinking clearly again it was already dark outside. He had been sitting on the bed, trying to understand what this all was about. OK, Wilson had taken over the apartment. Made sense because the guy had needed a place anyway. But… why had he not changed the place to his liking? He couldn't make sense of it all. Was too tired to try and generally wasn't exactly in the mood.

Much more pressing was the urge to play the piano. Slowly House opened the bedroom-door and sneaked out as quietly as he could – he had not intention of waking Wilson and start some kind of conversation! The place was dark except for a small lamp in the den. Wilson was sound asleep on the couch. The sight of that was so familiar that House almost suffered a flashback.

On naked feet, sans-cane the man padded over to the instrument and sat down on the bench. Opened the lid and put his hands on the keys without striking a not. They felt smooth and cold and familiar beneath his fingers.

His Hands: they now were scarred and looked siginificantly different than the last time he'd sat here. Gently he pressed down the fingers of his right– a low, questioning chord and House had gooseflesh covering all of his body. A sharp glance towards Wilson told House that the other man was still asleep. Another note and still another, then a slow run. Despite the small electric keyboard, he was rusty.

Wilson couldn't tell what had woken him up but when he heard the soft sounds from the piano he first thought he was dreaming. Then he realized that House was indeed there and playing. Too afraid to scare the man away Wilson laid totally still, hoping House would not notice. Tears of joy were running down his face.


End file.
